


Taught to Hate. Learned to Love.

by idiom



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crusades, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, M/M, Past Lives, Pre-Canon, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25458781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiom/pseuds/idiom
Summary: Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Niccolò di Genova killed each other many times before they had a chance to truly meet anywhere other than a battlefield. But they both felt they already knew each other.Because they had met before.In their dreams.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 51
Kudos: 501





	Taught to Hate. Learned to Love.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The Old Guard and (like everyone else) I’m now completely obsessed with Joe and Nicky. Like… how are they such goddamn goals?! Haven’t read the comics yet so if this backstory is already in there… well… this is just my version of how they met. Enjoy! 
> 
> I include translations in the text so just FYI people are not repeating themselves. Translations are written out like this in dialogue: “ _Salve._ Hello.”
> 
> TECHNICALLY Niccolò should be speaking some old Genoese dialect... he’s just speaking Italian. Yusuf should be speaking some old form of Arabic or Ottoman Turkish… he’s just speaking Arabic. 
> 
> Sorry I am a linguist but I have my limits haha!

**Taught to Hate. Learned to Love.**  
  


The journey from Genova had been long and fraught over rough mediteranian waters, but finally their great ships lowered cross-marked sails as they reached the Holy Land. The crusaders’ siege of Jerusalem was well underway. They had the support of the Almighty on their side and this land would be His and in that respect theirs. The heathens who lived upon its splendour and profited from its fertility would be quashed by an army of the truly righteous.

Niccolò di Genova found himself walking through the dusty streets of a small village outside the city of Jaffa. The place had been long since abandoned in the wake of the wars sweeping across the land. The crusaders set up camp in the derelict buildings, their presence growing in preparation to attack the high-walled city under siege on the horizon.

A stone hut that seemed to have escaped all damage or wear had been made available for the chaplain, a priest who had travelled with Niccolò’s company of crusaders. Inside the stone hut the holy man had assembled a makeshift parsonage. As Niccolò approached the open doorway, he shivered despite the heat of the mediterranian sun. 

Niccolò had always put his faith in the church, as any good Cristian should. He trusted in its leaders, their ritual and guidance, he even hoped one day to become a priest himself. But still, there was something about going into a confession that made him cold and ill at ease. 

Guilt weighed heavy in his heart and speaking to the priest did not absolve him of it, for he could not and would not ever articulate fully what sins he’d committed in his thoughts and in his dreams.

In his makeshift chambers the priest was seated at a plain wooden desk. A sword blessed by the Pope himself leaned up against the wall next to him. It would never be put to use, but it remained by the priest's side, a symbol that the violence to be wrought in this war was vindicated by the Almighty.

When Niccolò entered, the priest put away his scriptures and ushered him closer with a wave of one hand. “ _Perché siete qui, Figlio mio?_ Why have you come, my son?”

Forgetting all hesitation, Niccolò rushed forward. He knelt before the priest, crossing himself as he fell to the ground. 

“ _Mi benedica, padre, perché ho molto peccato in pensieri_. Bless me, father, for I have sinned in my mind,” he confessed.

“Niccolò,” the priest let out an indulgent sigh. “You know, my son, you need not come to me daily as you would in Genova. This crusade in which you are taking part is penance for all sins confessed as the Pope has decreed. Whatever guilt you feel you are harbouring still does not require further purification.”

Niccolò squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes. I understand. But these dreams I have…” He could not bring himself to repeat what he had seen. The images his mind’s eye had shown him in his sleep... The things he’d felt… That man... 

“ _Mi dispiace, padre._ I’m sorry, father,” Niccolò bowed his head lower. “I still worry that there is something in me that will not be washed away with the blood of our enemies. It is… a temptation. Nightly it tries to drive me from His grace.”

The priest shook his head. “My son, God washes away all sins and even the devil’s greatest temptations cannot steal you from him. Whatever it is you hold inside, whatever sinful nature you feel you harbour, treat it as you would treat any other enemy of our Lord.” 

Niccolò’s gaze rose as a hand landed upon his shoulder, ushering him to stand. His eyes met the priest’s hard, cold stare. 

“Crush the enemy within and without.”

Niccolò sucked in a breath. He wanted to say more, to tell this holy man all of the strange things he’d seen in his dreams, but he swallowed his words down and bowed his head. 

“ _Grazie, padre._ Thank you, father,” Niccolò whispered.

“Of course, my son. Now, let us pray. We have a great battle tomorrow and we must ask God for his guidance and protection.”

“Yes, father.”

—

The next day, Niccolò was panting heavily as he ran forward through the streets of Jaffa, cutting down any man who stood in his path. The crusaders had broken through the city walls by the early afternoon. The sun was beating down on them, lifting the rank smells of sweat and blood and battle into the air.

“This way,” Niccolò’s commander shouted out, waving them ahead of him. 

Their small troop pressed forward through a street that led away from the main conflict up to a narrow alleyway. They held their swords high, blades at eye level, waiting to strike.

Niccolò breathed deep, his eyes scanning the stone walls and open archways ahead of them. The dusty coloured buildings seemed to mesh and blur in his adrenaline addled mind. Their enemy could easily be hiding anywhere, camouflaged in sandy-coloured robes.

He heard the screaming before he saw the archers. Arrows whistled through the air around him, knocking the helm from his head and planting themselves in the chest cavities of his two fellow soldiers. They fell to the dusty ground.

With an enraged cry, Niccolò lunged forward before the nearest archer could knock another arrow. He cut the man down with a single heavy swing of his blade, but had little time to celebrate the victory.

An arrow landed in his back, piercing through his tunic with a sickening thunk. It’s weight reverberated through him and his heart stalled in shock.

Niccolò turned. His body jerked around suddenly when another arrow hit him in the shoulder. Groaning from the pain, he fell to his knees. 

With a shaking hand, he reached for the cross at his neck and held it in his fist. His head bowed forward in a final prayer before he lifted his gaze. He locked eyes with his assailant.

The archer’s face was covered but his strangely familiar dark gaze peered from between the swaths of earth-coloured fabric obscuring his other features. He had his next arrow knocked already, but he froze. His black eyes seemed to soften into an uncertain expression. 

Niccolò let the cross slip from his fingers.

This man. He’d seen him before. He knew those eyes.

This was the man in his dreams.

The archer’s hesitation did not last long. His dark gaze narrowed. For good reason. They did not know each other. They were enemies on a battlefield. 

He pulled back to loose a final well aimed arrow and as he did Niccolò stared into his eyes, filled with righteous hate. Even as the arrow pierced his heart he knew...

He’d never forget those eyes.

—

As the sunset over the mediterranean sea, a strangely cool breeze filtered through the air. The streets were deserted safe for the dead. 

In a blood splattered back alley, a sharp gasp ripped through Niccolò’s reawakened lungs. Darkness faded and the world came back to him. Everything was the same as it had been, but… he wasn’t dead.

In the distance he could hear his army crying victory. 

They’d taken the city. Jaffa was theirs.

Shaking and terrified, Niccolò sat up off the sodden ground. He reached across to one shoulder to pry away the arrow that had pierced him, only to find it wasn’t there. There was blood soaking the jaggedly torn fabric near his collarbone where the arrow had ripped through, but the projectile itself was gone. Three arrows lay on the ground around him, the one that had pierced his back, the one that had pierced his shoulder and the one that had ended his life.

Niccolò reached for his chest. His fingers slipped through the hole in his bloody tunic, just over his pounding heart. Beneath lay soft, unblemished skin. There was blood everywhere, but no wound. 

“ _Cristo santo_. Jesus Christ.”

Niccolò sucked in a ragged breath. Panic struck him like a blade. He pushed himself back against a wall, searching anywhere for support. His gaze swept over the bodies around him, his fellow soldiers, his enemy. 

They were still dead. They did not wake. 

Why had he?

Niccolò searched the alleyways, but the archer who’d killed him was long gone and the thick bloodstains on the three arrows he’d shot told Niccolò the man had left thinking the deed was done. And perhaps it had been. For a moment.

—

Years passed and the Crusades continued. The Christians from the west returned, their soldiers and their ships coming again and again. They laid waste to the holy land, carving up the fields and laying siege to the cities.

Outside his local mosque in Aleppo, Yusuf Al-Kaysani diligently performed his ablutions before prayers. He cleansed himself with cupped handfuls of clear water—hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, hair, ears and feet—before entering the mosque. 

In the silence, he focused and prayed. Every invocation was in exhalation of his God, but in his heart he hoped they would lead to a glorious victory for his army against the heathen invaders. They would do battle as soon as the sun crested the horizon the next day.

Yusuf tried to focus, but his God was testing him. Whenever he closed his eyes, images from his dreams flooded his thoughts. He tried to shake them away, but just like the crusaders they came again and again, vividly invading his mind’s eye. 

He couldn’t help question the one who’d sent them.

_Why? Why show me images of this man, this crusader, this enemy? Why bring us together on the battlefield? Why tempt me with thoughts of his embrace and then force me to kill him? Why fill me with such hate and fear and love and… Why?_

Yusuf opened his eyes, gazing towards the calligraphic inscriptions circling the domed ceiling of the mosque. With a heavy sigh, he bowed his head to the ground and concluded his prayers.

When he sat up, he whispered his thanks to the angels who recorded his deeds good and bad. Should he die on the field of battle those angels would tally his actions and chronicle the results for his God. 

He could only hope he would be found deserving of some salvation, whatever it may be, however it may come to him.

—

In the fields of Sarmada just outside the city of Aleppo, blood stained the earth as two armies clashed. Men clamoured over each other, Christian and Muslim alike, all lashing out with swords and spears, crying and bleeding until their righteous war painted the golden sands red.

Niccolò’s gaze travelled the battlefield, moving between his fellow crusaders, watching them fall. They were being cut down around him, one by one. Curved blades clashed with longswords. White tunics painted with red crosses were soon so matted with blood the symbol disappeared into the stains.

Niccolò himself was cut deep many times, deep enough to slow him down, deep enough to kill. But he didn’t slow. He didn’t die. He couldn’t. He would fall and the wound would close and he would get up and fight on.

The wind blew at their enemies' backs leaving the crusaders blinded by the dust. It seemed as if the devil himself was working his power on the field against them and he was winning this day. They would be forced back soon enough.

The battlefield was a mass of bodies and movement, but through the mess of blood and the thick cloud of dust there was one figure who seemed frozen in the heat of it all. He stood like a specter on the battlefield, a ghost from Niccolò’s past.

It was him. The one who’d killed him all those years ago.

The man in his dreams. 

The devil was truly playing games.

The all-too-familiar man’s dark eyes—eyes Niccolò would never forget—were once so filled with hate and rage, but now they widened, shocked and confused. 

Without hesitation, Niccolò took the opportunity to approach. He broke ranks and, with his teeth clenched, he launched himself at the man with only one thought in his mind.

_Crush the enemy within and without._

The thrust of his blade was easily deflected. A curved sword scooped it out of the way in a single fluid movement. This warrior still clearly had some sense of self preservation, despite his utter horror. 

Niccolò did not know by what grace he’d managed to survive the previous attack, but if killing this man could stop him haunting his dreams, he would not hesitate. 

_Crush the enemy within and without._ Just as they’d taught him. The mantra repeated itself in his mind over and over. 

Niccolò cried out, attacking like a man possessed. He struck and struck again, his sword coming down hard and heavy against his killer’s curved blade until finally a blow landed.

His sword caught the other man just above the collarbone and plunged into the soft skin at the base of his neck. He let out a choked gasp and blood spewed from his lips. 

As he fell to his knees, the man reached out with a shaking hand trying to grasp onto Niccolò, trying to grasp onto life. Dark eyes met Niccolò’s for a moment before all life faded from their depths.

Niccolò withdrew his blade, panting heavily as his killer’s body fell to the bloodsoaked sand. He stepped away from the corpse and turned to rejoin his army’s retreat. 

The enemy was gone. No more. No backward glances. No more dreams. 

Niccolò almost wanted to laugh as a manic sensation washed over him.

How many men could say they had looked into the eyes of their own murderer as they sent him to hell.

—

Just under a decade later, Niccolò took on another identity and joined another battle with the Knights Templar. He was ordained as a priest and found himself taken on as a chaplain in the crusade for Tripoli. 

They’d come over the water and captured the city. However, even weeks after the bodies had been cleared from the streets, the battle was far from over. 

Local mercenaries were still holding out all over. They were a new breed of soldier, men who would drug themselves numb before attacking without warning, maiming and killing the unsuspecting crusaders who’d taken their city. 

They called these men assassins.

One late afternoon while Niccolò was patrolling the narrow streets of Tripoli, a shadow appeared as the figure crept up behind him. Niccolò moved to turn, but the assassin attacked without warning. His hand clasped over Niccolò’s mouth and soon after darkness filled his vision. 

Without a sound, Niccolò was pulled off the sunlit alleyway through a door and into an empty windowless room. 

A searing pain tore through his nerves as a jagged blade pierced his chest just beneath his ribs. The blade remained, buried deep, not pulling out, not letting him bleed to death, not just yet. His assassin was not planning to kill him quickly.

Everything had happened so fast. His eyes still hadn’t had time to adjust to the darkness. As his vision cleared, Niccolò reached out. He clasped his hands over the tanned fist gripping the other end of the blade. His nails dug angrily into his attacker’s skin, but he was already growing weak from the pain.

With rage in his eyes, he looked up, but utter horror quickly wiped away his mask of rage.

“ _Ma è impossibile_. But that’s Impossible. It’s you. I killed you in the desert,” Niccolò choked out around the blood filling his lungs and throat. He stared up into the dark eyes of the specter from his dreams. 

The man who’d killed him, the man that he had killed and the man of his dreams all appeared in the one who stood before him. He could pick those dark eyes out of a crowd of thousands. His face, though filled with the expression of hatred, was not cruel, just tired. He seemed ready to finish things, ready for the world to end. 

They were opposites in every way, and yet there was something in this man’s features that made Niccolò feel like he was staring into a mirror. His own tortured reflection stared back at him through the eyes of his enemy.

“ _Che succede?_ What is happening? _”_ he managed to gasp out. _“Che tipo di demone...?_ What type of demon…?”

“ _Sono il demone?_ I am the demon?” This man who was both his killer and his victim let out a breathy chuckle. “I killed you first back in Jaffa. What does that say about you?”

Niccolò frowned. “You—you speak Italian?”

The question only earned him another laugh. “After so many years suffering your people’s invasions, I decided it would be useful to learn.”

Niccolò shook his head. This was impossible. “ _Che succede?_ What is happening?” he repeated breathlessly.

The man shrugged and cocked his head blithely. “ _Non lo so._ I don't know. But this time—“ He pulled his dagger from Niccolò’s chest drawing a pained grunt with it “—I’ll make sure you’re dead.”

The jagged blade cut Niccolò’s heart as it jerked from his chest and when the assassin slit his throat open, he did die. For a moment.

—

Decades passed like years used to, but as time wore on Yusuf’s body did not. He had travelled many miles and taken on many identities as age and death escaped him. His skills in battle increased after years spent fighting off the invaders from the west and he’d risen stealthily through the ranks of army after army.

In this period, Yusuf had positioned himself as the captain of Nur ad-Din’s forces as they rode to help end the siege of Damascus. After yet another of what were becoming countless battles, he found himself staring out over what was left of the crusader’s pitiful attempt to take the city. Through the stone slit of a window in the palace halls, he could see the burning remains of the enemy camp. 

The Christian armies beyond their walls had broken and cracked so easily. Their attempt at a siege was laughable and taking their heads had been pleasurably effortless. They’d barely lasted four days before retreating back to the safety of Jerusalem. But even as he watched the retreat, Yusuf knew they’d return soon enough.

“ _Rais Al-Kaysani!_ Captain!” 

Yusuf turned from his place by the window as his soldiers dragged what looked like a corpse through into the hall.

“ _Ma hdha?_ What is this?” he shouted as they dropped the bloodsoaked figure to the ground. The man was wearing a white mantle marked with a heavy red cross, Templar robes.

“I have no use for prisoners,” Yusuf spat. “Cut off his head and burn his body with the other heathens.”

“He was unarmed, _Rais Al-Kaysani_ .” The soldier gestured to the cross at their captive’s neck with the tip of his blade. “One of their holy men _._ We found him alive outside the gate. His people must have left him in their haste to retreat.”

Yusuf scoffed and shook his head. “Holy man or not, he is half dead. What use is he to—?” 

Yusuf paused in his approach and sucked in a surprised breath. Their Templar captive had tilted his head to look up at him. Covered in blood and dirt from the battlefield, Yusuf could still clearly recognise the man his soldiers had brought before him. 

Yusuf had dreams solely fixed on this man’s eyes. Blue eyes like a soft fog passing over the sea had long haunted his sleepless nights. No matter how many times he killed him... No matter how many times he tried to wipe him from memory...

The man stared up at him from beneath a blood matted fringe. He looked… the same, the same as he’d looked back in Jaffa, the same as he had on every battlefield after that. Like Yusuf, despite the years this man had been marred by neither time nor steel.

How did they keep finding each other?

“Leave us,” Yusuf ordered after a moment’s hesitation. “I know this one. I have questions for him.”

His soldiers, though surprised by his shift in attitude, bowed to his orders. They retreated, leaving their prisoner in his charge.

The door closed and they were alone.

Yusuf approached the man. With a curiously raised brow, he crouched down before him. 

“ _Salve, vecchio amico mio. Mi chiamo Yusuf Al-Kaysani_ . Hello, my old friend. My name is Yusuf Al-Kaysani,” he said slowly, speaking the enemy tongue to the all-too-familiar man laying prostrate before him. “ _Chi siete voi_? Who are you?”

His enemy, victim, killer and now prisoner rose gradually. His movements were slow, perhaps because his body was still healing. He eventually knelt before Yusuf, obviously unsteady and exhausted. But when he looked up, a smile twisted in one corner of his lips. “ _Sono Niccolò di Genova_ . _Il tuo demone._ I am Niccolò di Genova. Your demon.”

In a blink, Yusuf found himself on the floor. His back hit the rug with a heavy thud, forcing the air from his lungs. It seemed his old friend, Niccolò, had been playing dead, as it were. Despite the blood covering his body, his wounds had long since healed.

Niccolò pressed an elbow into Yusuf’s throat, strangling him blue until Yusuf managed to wrestle out of his hold. He lifted a knee and landed it against Niccolò’s side. The blow sent the crusader rolling off with a sharp cry.

They both stood, quickly regaining their bearings. Panting, Yusuf glared at Niccolò and Niccolò glared right back. As if reading each other, they both lunged again. Their movements were contrary and yet synchronized as they attacked with elbow, knee and fist.

Niccolò was good with a sword, but Yusuf was better with his hands. He dodged Niccolò’s less balanced punches and controlled the fight. When the next blow came flying, Yusuf grabbed his wrist out of the air and wound his arm around to press against his lower back.

—  
Niccolò let out a furious growl, struggling to turn around. He ended up trapped in Yusuf’s hold, chest to chest with his hands clasped behind his back. 

Yusuf was stronger than him. He could feel it in the man’s arms as they wrestled against each other. He was able to catch Niccolò’s movements and use them to his advantage. With startling ease, Yusuf maneuvered them until Niccolò found himself backed up against a stone column.

Yusuf held him there with the weight of his body. The heated line of his form pressed into Niccolò, trapping him, holding him still. 

He was completely at Yusuf’s mercy and… it thrilled him.

Mind racing, Niccolò began to struggle furiously against the sensation, against his thoughts and against Yusuf. But the other man did not give. He pressed himself firmly into Niccolò keeping him pinned to the stone. Then a hand rose to grip his neck. 

Niccolò sucked in a ragged breath. Fingers strengthened from decades of war and swordplay clasped firmly over his throat, threatening to cut off his air supply. 

“Why did you come here, Niccolò di Genova?” Yusuf hissed. “How do you keep finding me?”

“I did not come here!” Niccolò spat. “Your men brought me to you. The archers on the wall killed me and my fellows left me for dead.”

“And when you woke from this death? Why did you not flee back to Jerusalem? Why did you approach the gate?”

Tears pricked in his eyes. Niccolò shook his head. “ _Non lo so._ I don’t know,” he whispered, for he truly did not know the answer. He’d just thought… just maybe...

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the stone and began to pray. “ _Pater Noster, ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo..._ Our Father, lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil..."

Yusuf’s grip on his throat grew tighter, nearly choking him. “That is not your language. Do you curse me in a heathen tongue?”

“No,” Niccolò managed to gasp out. 

Yusuf’s hand pressed harder and he leaned in close. “Don’t lie to me.”

Niccolò closed his eyes. He could feel heat swelling through him. His entire body burning, engulfed in an inferno he’d only dared dream about.

When he finally found his voice, he managed to whisper. “ _Ti prego._ Please,” he begged.

Yusuf leaned in close, close enough for Niccolò to feel his breath tickling the shell of his ear. “ _Cosa vuoi, Niccolò?_ What do you want?”

Niccolò sucked in a ragged breath. “ _Più forte._ Harder.”

“ _Che?_ What?” Yusuf let out a gruff humourless laugh. “ _Vuoi che ti uccida ancora?_ You want me to kill you again?”

“Yes.” The word spilled out automatically before Niccolò shook his head. “No.” He swallowed, feeling Yusuf’s hand constricting his throat. His fingers burned Niccolò’s skin and that flame spread, heating his cheeks and lighting a fire in his belly. 

Their eyes were locked, focused on each other. The desert sands could have ripped through the room and neither would have taken notice.

“What do you want, Niccolò?” Yusuf breathed.

“ _Baciami_. Kiss me.”

Niccolò’s words were a confession, but it was as if Yusuf knew they were coming. He leaned in without hesitation and captured Niccolò’s lips. 

Yusuf devoured him like a man who’d been starving for decades. His kiss filled Niccolò with a sense of passionate longing. Both absolute delight and utter trepidation swallowed him whole.

The hand still clasped around his neck now felt like a caress moving over his heated skin. Fingers slid softly over the line of his jaw and trailed down over his throat, along his collarbone. Yusuf’s body holding him steady now felt like a grounding weight rather than a restricting one.

As the kiss deepened. Niccolò couldn’t stop the moan that roared up through him. His hands moved over Yusuf’s chest, but he no longer wanted to push the other man away. 

Half remembered dreams and the pain of their shared reality merged. 

This first kiss could have lasted an eternity and it still wouldn’t have been long enough. There was something innocent and searching in the caress of Yusuf’s lips, something Niccolò’s entire being responded to. 

Yusuf’s mouth claimed him, hot and wet and ravenous. His beard chafed Niccolò’s skin, but still Niccolò hoped Yusuf would kiss him until he was raw and burning. 

Between heated kisses and gasping intakes of air, Yusuf whispered in arabic. Niccolò did not understand his words, but they could have been mistaken for a prayer.

When their kiss broke, they leaned into each other, their foreheads pressed, brow to brow. As they breathed they breathed the same heated air, flowing together, both sensing something within the other that neither could ever hope to understand.

Though he did not comprehend it, Niccolò knew this sensation as well as he knew himself. 

He’d dreamed of this moment. Many times.

—

When Yusuf next opened his eyes, he met the seafoam coloured gaze of the man his people called an enemy. But he could not see that enemy in Niccolò’s soft stare. He could see only a future both sure and uncertain. A future filled with the fear of the unknown and the pure elation of rapture. A future he’d seen glimpses of in his dreams

“Niccolò—”

“Yusuf—”

A sudden knock at the door on the other end of the hall jarred them apart. They both sucked in a breath, pulling away from each other. 

Yusuf shook his head, rattled as he’d ever been. This rude intrusion of the outside world that had knocked them back into reality was worse than the first inhale after death throes. 

“ _Udkhul_! Come in!” he shouted, angry at having to be forced from Niccolò’s warmth. 

The door opened and two of the palace guards stepped in. They scanned the room before their eyes landed on Yusuf. 

“ _Rais Al-Kaysani, gharafatuk jahizah._ Captain, your chambers are ready.” The guard’s gaze shifted to Niccolò. “Who is this infidel?”

“ _La. Hadha alrajul hu jasus._ No. This man is a spy. Our spy. His people discovered him so he fled back to us.”

The soldiers nodded their understanding. “ _Hadha muntaqi_. That makes sense. There was not another soul alive outside the walls. The archers were meticulous.”

“ _Balfel._ Indeed. Please, take him to be bathed and clothed. Tell the servants to show him the finest of treatment. He has been too long in the belly of the heathen beast.”

With a polite nod, the guards moved to obey his orders. Stepping toward Niccolò, they gently ushered him along.

“ _Che sta succedendo?_ What's going on?” Niccolò struggled briefly and cast Yusuf a suspicious glare. “What did you say to them? Where are they taking me?”

Yusuf only chuckled and waved away his worries. “They will take you to wash. You have blood in your hair.” He winked. “ _Benvenuti a Damascus, Niccolò di Genova_. Welcome to Damascus.”

—

Niccolò had to admit, the baths in the Damascan palace were a luxury he’d never known. Fresh mint and floral aromas filled the air as steam rose up from the clean, clear water. 

He could not remember the last time he’d had a proper wash. Considering the number of years he’d now spent on this earth, he supposed that wasn’t a very good thing. The servants in the guest wing of the Damascan palace seemed to agree, if their whispers and scrunched faces were anything to go by.

Niccolò was given tools to shave while a servant trimmed clumps of blood matted hair from his head. The shaving implements surprised him. He’d yet to see a grown man without a beard in this land. He thought the practice non-existent. 

He ran his palms over now smoothed cheeks and allowed the servants to anoint his skin with sweet smelling oils before dressing him in lustrously embroidered robes. Eventually they brought him into a bed chamber and let him be. Once he was alone, Niccolò gazed down at himself, shaking his head. 

They’d given him an embellished white robe belted with a yellow sash that shined like gold. He must have looked like a young Damascan prince in such oriental finery. He was simply missing the silvery rings and jewelled ornaments of a royal.

Niccolò let out an amused huff. His palms smoothed down the front of his new robes and he turned then to survey the room. 

It was clearly a chamber meant for a distinguished guest. Whatever lie Yusuf had told about Niccolò, the state of his provided lodgings proved he was a man in a position to be believed.

Incense burned, streaming smoke from a decorative clay pot in the corner and filling the room with a delicately spiced aroma. Fine carpets covered the stone floor. Barefoot, Niccolò felt as if he were walking over the softest sand. He stepped further into the room, moving past an array of silken throw pillows on his way to a wide, open window.

The chamber looked out over a courtyard tiled in a mosaic pattern with stones of many different colours. A long pool stretched out through the centre of the square reflecting the palace’s high towers along the surface. Over the sparkling clear water, Petals that had fallen from the well-maintained rose bushes nearby danced on liquid ripples. 

It was beauty Niccolò had never expected to see in this war ravaged land.

“You know, I often dreamt of you like this,” Yusuf’s voice pierced through Niccolò’s thoughts. His lulling dulcet tone drew him in.  
“And I you,” Niccolò found himself admitting as soon as they locked eyes. If there was anyone he could admit that to it was Yusuf. The man had already attached himself to part of Niccolò’s mind and soul whether he liked it or not. 

With a breathy chuckle, Yusuf stepped into the chamber, securing the door behind him. He’d likewise bathed and changed out of his military uniform. The robes he now wore were similar to the ones Niccolò had been given though his were blue, trimmed with silver and belted with a pale-green sash. 

Niccolò felt his breath catch. In an effort to regain some control, he turned from Yusuf, facing the courtyard beyond the window once more. They had never seen each other in anything other than battle garb and the effect it had on him was unspeakably thrilling. He did not know why.

“What is happening to us?” Niccolò wondered aloud, gazing out over the reflecting pool. 

Yusuf let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. But now that I have you here, I cannot bring myself to question it.”

When Niccolò turned once more, Yusuf was at his back. The man’s hands landed gently upon his shoulders, squeezing.

“It seems we are haunting each other,” Niccolò whispered.

“If I am so lucky to have a ghost such as you in my shadow, I would gladly let you haunt me until my dying day.”

Niccolò couldn’t stop the disbelieving laugh that huffed from his chest. “And when will that be?”

“Who can say? My God. Your God.” Yusuf shook his head. “Perhaps we are eternal.”

Niccolò blinked. “Why doesn’t that scare me when I look at you?” he whispered more to himself than to the man next to him.

Yusuf’s answer was to lean close and kiss him again, slow and sweet this time.

Reaching up, Niccolò covered one of the hands on his shoulders with his own. Their fingers knit together as the kiss deepened. 

Yusuf only let go of his hand so he could turn Niccolò bodily towards him. He parted the other man’s lips with his own and slipped his tongue into Niccolò’s mouth. With a moan, Yusuf delved into Niccolò. His body pressed closer and closer as if any amount of space between them offended him. 

Dizzy from the passion, Niccolò found himself caught between the muscular expanse of Yusuf’s form and the hard stone of the window’s edge digging into his back. 

He broke away with a gasp and his gaze shifted out over the open courtyard. “Should we move from view?”

Without answering, Yusuf wrapped his arms around Niccolò’s waist. They moved out of sight, but they didn’t go far. Yusuf pulled them both down to lay upon the cushioned ground seating surrounded by silken pillows. As they rested there for a quiet moment, he ran his fingers through Niccolò’s brunette hair, combing it back away from his eyes. 

“I do not know if I searched or hoped, but I fought battle after battle wondering when I would next find you,” Yusuf whispered. 

Niccolò nodded, not sure if he was agreeing or simply understanding. He touched Yusuf’s cheek watching as the man closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

He took the initiative this time, pressing a chaste kiss to Yusuf’s lips. Niccolò didn’t feel as if he had the words to speak as Yusuf did so eloquently. Everything he felt for this man was sensation, emotion, a haze of dreams, death and lust all boiling beneath the surface of his skin as a fire raged through him.

Yusuf was all strength and confidence. His kiss was devotional, his touch inspiring. He moved over Niccolò like the sea's waves moved over the medditeranean shore. Like the sand rolling beneath him, Niccolò couldn’t help but be taken along with each crash of pleasure.

Before long, Yusuf was on top of him, his weight half covering Niccolò’s body as they kissed. He held Niccolò’s hips down when he tried to arch up. Distracting him with his lips and tongue, Yusuf slipped a thigh between Niccolò’s legs and pressed against the hardness he found there once, then again. As Niccolò let out encouraging moans, Yusuf’s hand followed the movement between their legs, sliding through the open part in the lower half of Niccolò’s robe.

As pleasure ripped through him, Niccolò let out a choked cry

“ _Dio mi perdoni._ God forgive me.” Niccolò pushed away from Yusuf, shaking his head. “ _Cosa ci faccio qui?_ What am I doing here? I cannot, Yusuf. I am a priest. In my religion, it is not permissible for me to wed, nevermind...” He gestured between them, his meaning obvious. They were enemies, two men, of two people, of two religions, of two lands. Everything Niccolò had ever been taught told him that this was wrong.

“Niccolò,” Yusuf whispered, somewhere between tempting him and begging. “I know if you have shared my dreams, you have already been with me, many times. You feel what I feel. We are both star-crossed and destined. Two men on opposite sides of a battlefield bound together for an undying eternity. You must feel it too.” Yusuf cupped Niccolò’s cheeks in both hands. “You must.”

In denial, Niccolò shook his head. “I have lived my entire life in service to my God, my church and my religion.” He took a ragged breath and closed his eyes. “When you first killed me and I discovered I had this… blessing? This curse? I did not know if God was with me or if He had completely abandoned me. I still don’t”

Yusuf let out a humourless chuckle, nodding for it was clear he too had questioned his God. He reached for Niccolò. “What is a curse to the blessed man? What are Gods to those who cannot die? What is sin? What is paradise? I have now lived multiple lifetimes and you have been the single constant.” Yusuf’s eyes were so ardent, so sure. 

When Niccolò opened his eyes and met Yusuf’s gaze, his heart swelled. Somehow, he sensed he could put his faith in anything this man said to him.

“Niccolò,” Yusuf whispered. “I need you. You are the only thing that makes sense to me. You are the moon to the earth that is my reality, coming and going as the years pass like days. I want you to be both my moon and my sun. My day and my night. I want you with me always. You have become what that is real to me.”

“But we are enemies,” Niccolò whispered, his voice wavering, unsure. “Like you said. Men on opposite sides of a battlefield.”

Yusuf did not deny it. He ran his hands along the smooth part of Niccolò’s borrowed robes, drawing it away ever so slightly, gently revealing more of the pale expanse of his chest. “Well, getting to know your enemy can have strategic value,” he all-but purred.

“ _Dio santo_. Good God,” Niccolò laughed, shaking his head. “You know, I was taught to hate you, your ways, your people.”

Yusuf shrugged. “Just as I was taught to hate yours... but perhaps we can learn to love instead?”

“Learn to love,” Niccolò whispered with a subtle smile. He tilted his head back, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling. If there was no higher power willing to strike him down, who was he to deny himself.

“It might take some time,” he finally replied.

Yusuf smiled. “Lucky for us, we seem to have an eternity.”

Niccolò couldn’t help but mirror his expression. He leaned in once more and pressed a hand to Yusuf’s bearded cheek. As he drew them together and kissed the man’s lips, Niccolò forced down the guilt and shame and everything within that his church had taught him to hate about himself. 

He made his own decision. He would crush the enemy within and learn to love the enemy without.

“Take me to bed, Yusuf,” Niccolò whispered, “I want to sleep and dream with you.”

“We can do more than just dream, _habibi_ , my love,” Yusuf murmured with a charming wink. Before Niccolò could huff at him, he lifted the man into his arms. He laid Niccolò upon the bed before standing back a moment himself. 

Niccolò was sure he made quite the picture with his robes half bunched up around his thighs and the sash coming loose in a way that allowed the smooth fabric around his chest to part open. As Yusuf’s eyes wondered, Niccolò cocked his head to one side.

“Are you not joining me?” 

“Give me a moment,” Yusuf said with a sly smile. “I want to savour seeing you like this. I never thought I would debauch a Christian priest.”

“I am fairly certain I should not call myself a priest anymore,” Niccolò huffed. “Sorry to spoil your fun.”

Yusuf only chuckled as he pulled the knotted sash wrapped around his own waist. The tie that had been keeping his robe closed fell away followed quickly by the robe itself. Yusuf stepped over the pool of sleek fabric on the floor and strode towards the bed.

Niccolò swallowed nervously. He’d seen men naked, living in close quarters on the battlefield, it was not an unusual occurrence. However he had never once borne witness to a man in such an intimate setting, nor a man in such a state as Yusuf was in. 

Only in his dreams...

Niccolò forced his gaze away from the length of Yusuf’s cock, but the sight burned a tantalizing image into his mind’s eye. Thick and proud between his legs, Yusuf was hard for him.

“You blush like a virgin,” Yusuf teased with little bite, his voice rough with arousal.

“I am a virgin,” Niccolò replied without shame though there was still heat in his cheeks. He sucked in a breath and turned back to Yusuf, head held high.

“Ah,” Yusuf hummed. “I will have to be careful with you then.”

Niccolò scoffed at that. As soon as Yusuf climbed into bed, he clasped a hand around the man's neck and pulled him into an embrace. He needed to prove something to Yusuf, prove to him that just because they were no longer on the battlefield didn’t mean he had no fight left in him. 

Niccolò mashed their lips together, perhaps too hard, too hasty. Their teeth clicked once and Niccolò groaned at the rough sensation of Yusuf’s beard against his skin. 

Still, Yusuf’s body shivered against him, obviously aroused by Niccolò’s vicious kiss. He moaned deeply when the man beneath him sucked his tongue experimentally. 

“ _Sei davvero un demone._ You really are a demon,” Yusuf breathed.

He trailed kisses along Niccolò’s jawline while the other man panted breathlessly into his ear. His palm spread over the exposed flesh between the angle of Niccolò’s parted robes. Gradually, he slipped a sly hand over Niccolò’s chest, beneath the ever loosening fabric.

Niccolò hissed as Yusuf’s fingers rolled delicately over the hardening nub of a nipple. His body jerked up, arching off the silken bedding.

“ _Dio._ God,” he hissed.

Yusuf chuckled. He drew his hand from Niccolò’s chest and instead traced a finger along the collar of his borrowed robes, inching the fabric towards the curve of one shoulder. “These clothes suit you, you know," Yusuf murmured

Niccolò opened his hooded eyes and raised a brow. “And yet I sense you are about to take them off.”

“Is my mind so easily read?”

“Perhaps only by me.”

Yusuf’s breathy laugh reverberated deep in his chest as he bent over Niccolò and pressed kisses to his now exposed shoulder and along his collarbone.

Niccolò closed his eyes once more while Yusuf’s deft hands worked to untie the golden-yellow belt cinched around his waist. His head arched back as Yusuf parted his robes, revealing more and more of his body to the heated air. Soon he lay naked surrounded in a pool of lustrous fabric. As Yusuf ravaged him with pleasure, he whispered to himself again and again, the sensations taking over his mind.

“ _Dio. Mi sento così bene._ God. It feels so good.”

“I hope it is me and not your God you beg for mercy,” Yusuf teased as he dipped lower and lower until his breath tickled Niccolò’s belly just above his aching cock.

“Only you,” Niccolò gasped. “Only you.”

“Only me,” Yusuf murmured before the heat of his mouth enclosed over Niccolò.

Yusuf’s lips were like nothing he’d ever felt before, warm and all consuming. Niccolò had been so good at resisting the temptation of pleasure. He’d only ever touched himself after his dreams with quick strokes in the dark of the night. Any bliss he felt then had always been followed by a deep sense of guilt and shame.

Yusuf’s brazen confidence was gratifyingly infectious. He took all of Niccolò’s shame away and gave him something that was so much more. His tongue was like hot smoke curling over his cock with wet spiraling licks. 

“Are you very sensitive, _habibi_?” Yusuf murmured as he pulled off Niccolò’s arousal. He pressed kisses along shuddering thighs before his lips trailed even lower.

Niccolò jerked as Yusuf parted his cheeks and dipped his tongue between them. He planted his feet on the mattress and gripped the silken sheets beneath him, but he did not protest. A soft cry broke his lips when a finger pressed through the tight ring of his muscle. Yusuf laved his tongue around it while stroking his cock. 

When he next spoke, his lips brushed Niccolò’s skin and his hot breath ghosted over him. “I want to cover you in scented oils and caress every piece of your body until even in your waking moments all you can think of is my hands on you.”

Niccolò threw his head back, letting out a hiss as sensation attacked him with a rabid fury. The thought sent a shiver coursing through his veins. Pleasure pooled in his lower abdomen. 

With a shaky exhale, Niccolò cracked open his eyes and chanced a glance down. Yusuf’s dark eyes, eyes he’d seen so many times across the battlefield, stared up at him from between the widespread of his thighs with unhidden lust in their depths. His mouth was heaven, his tongue paradise, but that gaze was the rapture that lifted Niccolò over the edge.

Biting his tongue, he held back a sharp cry, but he couldn’t keep the long drawn out groan from bubbling up from his chest. His body shuddered as ecstasy like he’d never felt before tore through him. The sensation made the vision behind his eyelids go white as if he were dying a little death again and again from the explosive pleasure.

—

Yusuf crawled up from between Niccolò’s legs to get a good look at his work, his masterpiece.

Niccolò was still panting as he lay flat against the bed with his eyes squeezed shut. The thick splash of his pleasure painted its way up his lower abdomen to his chest. He was so beautiful in this orgasmic bliss, far removed from the blood-soaked crusader he’d met on the fields of war.

Yusuf did not know how he could have ever brought himself to kill the man now lying prone before him. 

“I would capture you like this with my pen,” he said, patting his chest just above his heart. “Keep this picture with me always and forever.”

“Why do all that work when you can have the real thing?” A barely-there smile crept over Niccolò’s lips before his tired eyes slowly cracked open. “You are an artist?” he asked.

“I fancy myself one at times.” Yusuf chuckled as he ran a finger along Niccolò’s chest through the mess he’d made of himself. “In this land artists are forbidden from trying to replicate the living beings created by our God. It is written that those who take up such arts will be the most severely punished when judgement comes.”

“Punished for painting pictures?” Niccolò hummed with a light chuckle. “More severely than giving such great pleasure to your heathen enemy?” 

“Apparently.” Yusuf grinned. He leaned in and kissed Niccolò as if the few moments they’d been parted were far too long.

Niccolò moaned against his lips. When they broke away from each other, his foggy-blue eyes stared deep into Yusuf’s soul. “You can take your pleasure from me,” he whispered.

“I would rather take it with you,” Yusuf replied against his lips, still brushing kisses over him between words. He leaned away slightly, meeting Niccolò’s gaze with an earnest arch to his brow. “Are you sure? If you need rest...”

Niccolò’s hooded eyes dropped ever so slightly, his gaze shifting to where Yusuf’s cock was firm and aching between his legs. Blood twitched through it as he stared, transfixed. He reached out, stroking the heavy girth, drawing a deep moan from the man at his side.

Niccolò wet his lips and replied, “You mentioned something about scented oils?”

Groaning in anticipation, Yusuf rolled over briefly to retrieve a lovely bottle from its place upon the bedside table. The glass stopper popped out easily and he set it aside. A floral scent mixed with a cardamom spice filled the air between them. 

With his eyes on Niccolò’s, Yusuf held the bottle tilted just so over his chest. He waited.

Niccolò bit his lip and closed his eyes. He nodded.

“ _Dio. Sei così bello_. God. You’re so beautiful,” Yusuf whispered.

The first splash of oil drew a gasp from Niccolò. A long drawn out moan followed as the viscous liquid poured along his body. 

Yusuf painted a circling pattern over his skin before generously trailing a stream of oil between his parted thighs. With a soft clink, he set the bottle aside and replaced the stopper before his hands were all over Niccolò once more.

The room was filled with slick sounds as Yusuf massaged the oil over Niccolò’s chest. He ran his digits over pebbled nipples, drawing soft contented breaths from his lover. However it wasn’t long before a hand clasped hard around his wrist. 

Yusuf looked up to see Niccolò’s hazy blue eyes on him. He could read his expression, but he did not have to, Niccolò’s actions were clear. 

He took Yusuf’s hand in his and slowly led it down over his chest, his lower abdomen and finally back between his legs.

The slide was so easy. Yusuf slipped through the thick mess of oil down between the spread of Niccolò’s cheeks. One finger then two breached his tightness gently. Yusuf curled his joints as he moved in deep languid thrusts, penetrating Niccolò’s soft insides and coating him with a slippery slick layer of oil. 

Niccolò moaned as his body opened for Yusuf. His legs parted so wide he even threw one knee over the other man’s thighs. 

Yusuf pressed the hard length of his cock against Niccolò’s oiled hip, sliding against him with a pleasured groan. He longed to settle between his new lover’s legs and he could no longer see any reason to resist the temptation.

Placing a hand on Niccolò’s calf, he moved out from under his leg to position his body on top once more. He smoothed both palms from Niccolò’s knees along his shuddering inner thighs until he held his hips and used his grip there to pull Niccolò’s body into his lap.

As his legs parted over Yusuf’s thighs, Niccolò let out a strangled moan.

“Ah,” Yusuf sighed. “I remember this from my dreams. You enjoy my hands on you like this, don’t you?” He squeezed Niccolò’s narrow hips drawing another shuddering exhale.

Clearly beyond words, Niccolò nodded.

“Then you will enjoy this too.”

Yusuf pressed forward, fitting their bodies together so perfectly, as if they’d each been made with the other in mind. His length rubbed through the oil slicking Niccolò’s thighs, running along the space from his opening up beneath his cock over and over. 

Niccolò’s legs tightened around Yusuf’s waist with every rocking thrust. His feet crossed over the man’s lower back, controlling the pace with every press of his heels into Yusuf’s spine.

Before long, Niccolò was hard again and already edging towards a second climax.

“This is unbearable,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Yusuf...”

With a relenting hum, Yusuf stopped his teasing. He reached between them, positioning himself at Niccolò’s tight opening. With a groan, he rolled his hips forward, slipping just the tip of his cock inside. The hot, oil-slicked grip of Niccolò’s body around the sensitive head was pleasure unlike anything he’d ever felt. 

As he moved, Yusuf’s eyes never left Niccolò’s gaze, watching for even the slightest hint of pain. They’d killed each other so many times, caused each other so much pain already. He never wanted to see Niccolò hurt. Never again.

Niccolò gasped beneath him and leaned up onto his elbows. Open mouthed and wide eyed, he focused on the place where Yusuf was stretching him around his girth. His knees came up to press into the man’s sides, holding him still.

“ _Sei così grande_. You’re so big,” he panted between clenched teeth.

“ _Ma solo perché sei vergine._ Only because you’re a virgin.” Yusuf chuckled. “I assure you, I am... quite average.”

“ _Così umile._ So humble.” Niccolò let out a breathless laugh that quickly turned into a moan. “I want all of you.”

Yusuf groaned. He leaned over Niccolò and pressed a kiss to his ear before whispering, “Then you’ll have all of me.”

With a contented sigh, Niccolò combed his fingers through Yusuf’s curls as the man leaned over him. He sank in slowly, driving deeper and deeper until his skin was pressed flush against the curve of Niccolò’s cheeks. 

Chest to chest, wrapped in each other’s embrace, they were as close as two beings could be.

Yusuf took both Niccolò’s hands in his, threading their fingers together. He drew his arms up over his head, pressing their forearms into the sheets. Then, he leaned in to kiss his lover soundly.

They stayed like that for a long while, tasting each other’s lips. Niccolò breathed deeply through his nose, his heated panting tickling Yusuf’s cheek as they kissed. 

Yusuf only released Niccolò’s hands to run smooth caresses along his sides, thumbing the hard peaks of his nipples as he splayed his fingers over Niccolò’s ribs.

Niccolò’s hands carded through Yusuf’s curls once more before trailing down over his shoulders, his chest and finally up under his arms to land on the muscular expanse of his back. 

Yusuf hissed as Niccolò’s nails dug into his skin, hard enough to bite but not enough to leave marks. Then his lover’s voice tickled his ear.

“ _Scopami, Yusuf._ Fuck me.”

Yusuf paused above him. A sly smirk played across his lips as he pulled back to gaze into Niccolò’s desperate blue eyes. “ _Non conosco quella parola, Habibi._ I don’t know that word, my love.”

What could only be described as a growl sounded through Niccolò’s clenched teeth. His nails dragged down Yusuf’s back before his palms landed on the other man’s ass. He squeezed the flesh there, making his request unmistakably clear.

“Ah _,”_ Yusuf chuckled. _“Capisco_. I understand.” 

He drew back earning a surprised hiss from the man beneath him. When just the tip remained he eased forward, setting a deliberately slow pace. 

—

The first thrust was heaven and every one that followed eternal rapture.

Niccolò’s blood was pounding through his veins, beating like war drums in his ears. His entire body was alight. 

Yusuf was exactly as he’d dreamed he’d be. Strong and steady and giving, so giving. 

Niccolò gasped with every thrust, trying to keep quiet when everything inside was telling him to scream out.

“Let me hear you, Niccolò,” Yusuf whispered. He pressed a kiss to Niccolò’s forehead before tucking his forearm beneath his neck. With Niccolò wrapped tight in his embrace, he thrust harder, deeper.

A moan ripped through Niccolò’s chest. His eyes rolled back and his body seemed to follow, arching into Yusuf. Every roll of his hips pierced him with pleasure.

Niccolò closed his eyes as the familiar rise towards climax filled him with each steady thrust. The muscles between his legs tightened and tensed as Yusuf continued pumping into him.

“ _Hadha hu._ That’s it.” Though he did not understand the words, the heat of Yusuf’s voice tickled the shell of his ear as his pace picked up. “ _Harar nafsak._ Set yourself free.”

Niccolò wrapped his arms around Yusuf’s broad shoulders, holding him close as the sensation of complete and utter fulfillment spiked. He moaned when Yusuf’s hands found his hips again, holding him close as he thrust in as deep as he could, reaching a place that sparked another shivering peak in Niccolò. In more ways than one, Yusuf filled him with a warmth he had only ever dreamed about.

For a long while after, they lay together in a lull of ecstasy. Their panting breaths eventually evened out until they were in sync with each exhale.

When the weight over him shifted, Niccolò opened his eyes. Yusuf was staring down at him. 

“ _'Ant mud_ ahshun. You’re amazing,” he whispered.

Niccolò hummed a blissed-out confused little sound that drew a chuckle from his lover.

Yusuf pressed a kiss to his lips. “ _Sei straordinario_ ,” he repeated, in Niccolò’s tongue this time.

Niccolò hummed, but he was smiling. They dozed off in each other’s arms, enjoying a calm and dreamless sleep.  
—  
For the first time in his life, Niccolò woke with a clear and tranquil mind. 

The dim light of the setting sun was still shining through the window when he roused in Yusufs arms. The man was staring down into his eyes with a soft loving gaze. Niccolò couldn’t help but smile back at him. 

“ _Il mio sole. Ya amar._ My sun. My moon. Niccolò,” Yusuf whispered his name, kissing him again and again in the blissful evening that followed. 

“You are truly a hopeless romantic in every tongue, aren’t you?” Niccolò sighed even as he held Yusuf closer.

“I want to keep you in my arms and never let go,” Yusuf went on as he was wont to do. “I have not once in my life felt such peace as I do when I am close to you.”

Niccolò did not respond for a long while. He absently moved his fingers over the tanned skin of his lover’s arm, caressing it where it weighed so perfectly over his chest.

His silence was too much for Yusuf. “Niccolò?”

“Peace…” Niccolò started slow. “Peace is a dream I have not yet found my way to,” came his whispered reply. “I was a young man when I joined the crusades. Now I am old, though in appearance still the same man I was then. I have died many times for another’s cause. War is all I’ve ever truly known.”

“This land will always be hounded by the dogs of war,” Yusuf agreed. “But I will take you from here, Niccolò. We will travel away from this chaos, away from the hate.”

“I would like that.” Niccolò stared into a void, quiet and pensive. “I would like to feel what it is to have peace.”

“We will.” Yusuf kissed the crown of his head. “Anywhere you want to go. The world is ours.”

Turning in Yusuf’s arms, Niccolò let his lips tilt up into a little smirk. “I think Malta would be very nice this time of year.”

“Malta,” Yusuf smiled back at him. “You know, I have never been.”

Niccolò tucked himself up against Yusuf’s chest and covered Yusuf’s arm with his, threading their fingers together over his waist. 

“Then I will take you to Malta,” Niccolò whispered.

Yusuf kissed him gently. “I would like that.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading~! Find me on tumblr: [itsanidiom](http://itsanidiom.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Your Kudos sail away into the sunset towards Malta <3  
> Your Comments enjoy a nice holiday in a sunny seaside village B)


End file.
